


Where Broken Souls Go

by Ioweegian



Category: The Fosters (TV 2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Jonnor - Freeform, M/M, Reform School
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:42:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6605998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ioweegian/pseuds/Ioweegian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor Stevens. Jude Jacob.</p><p>Two broken souls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know where this starts and I know where it ends, I'm just not entirely sure how we're getting from here to there. 
> 
> I'll try to post warnings for individual chapters, as necessary. 
> 
> I have no idea how often I'll update: life happens.

“Have a seat, Stevens.” Warden Schmidt was a slight man, balding and timid. His face was a rounded triangle, his nose slightly hooked – he reminded Connor of a turtle. It was obvious that he'd gained his position through administration – a mail-room boy, Connor's dad would call it – as opposed to the previous warden, climbing the ladder from guard to warden over the course of a long career, cut short just before pension eligibility. Schmidt, on the other hand, couldn't have been much over 35, 40 at the oldest.

He held a file open on his desk, absently scanning the pages while pretending to ignore the incoming inmate. “Student,” he reminded himself silently. “These are students. Rehab and education and reform, not punishment.”

Connor Stevens took the only unoccupied chair in the office. The room was warm, almost inviting, like Connor's dad's study back home – under Warden Turner. Warden Schmidt had it stripped straight off, a desk, a computer on it, a leather stuffed chair behind it, a plain wooden chair in front of it. It might have been the beginning of a remodel, it might have been complete – from his read of the man, either option was equally possible.

The man closed the file and leaned back, staring at the boy across from him. Dirty blond hair, hazel eyes, a sturdy build, five nine according to the file. Single father, mom gone who knows where – the record indicated multiple return addresses on incoming mail, never the same one twice – no siblings. A kind face, clean shaven, rarely seen under the circumstances – 2 years here, with 2 more to go, he'd aged similar to his non-incarcerated peers. Unusual, as the stress of being locked up aged boys quickly – he was 16 and looked 16, the other inm... students his age took the demeanor of men 5 years older, shaving the bare minimum within code, sometimes, the guards reported, requiring write-ups and disciplinary action to maintain even that.

“Tell me about the incident,” the man began.

Connor shifted in his seat. He'd assumed it was his file laying on the desk, but maybe not. He shrugged. “I was hungry. He shouldn't have fought back – it was only a pizza.” Stealing the pizza might have earned him a year, maybe two with probation, but the delivery-boy jumped to the defensive like it was gold. He'd hit his head when he tripped down the stairs, knocking himself out. If he'd just let go of the box, if he hadn't tripped over his loose laces, if only... Connor would be home by now. Probably figuring out how to steal another pizza if he was right about his dad's claim of sobriety being yet another lie. 

The warden's expression didn't change as he leaned forward and tapped the file. “Not that one. You've been here two years with only one disciplinary action. Tell me about that.”

Eyes narrowing, Connor leaned forward and met the man's gaze. “No.”

Schmidt cocked his head and sat back. A drawer opened and another file appeared on the desk, followed by another, and two more. “These are the other, uh, witnesses and their statements - they're identical, word for word,” he said. “I want to hear what's not in here.”

“There isn't any more to tell. It didn't work. I got him away that day, but he was theirs a month later. Still is. There's nothing more to add.” 

“Yes, that would be the incident that says 'patient reports hitting his mouth on a wall and sitting on a shampoo bottle while falling in the shower,'” the man read out of the top file. Connor recognized it as a medical file – he knew there was no privacy here, but he'd at least expected medical information to be kept need-to-know. He didn't need to know Hay's history or condition. “The state bought him new teeth and he was out of the diaper after 3 weeks.”

Connor shrugged again. He'd done what he could for the boy, but like his dad said, you can't fix stupid – “I protected him once, I couldn't protect him 24 7. He didn't get that.”

“Two thirds of my students have false teeth. Ten percent are in Depends at any given time, and four drag colostomy bags around permanently.” A stack of files appeared and spread out across the desk. “Those stats are what cost my predecessor his job.”

“Hire better guards. Put in more cameras. Punish the ones doing it.” He wasn't sure why he'd been called up to the office – he'd taken a liking to a tadpole, broke the assailant's arm protecting him, lost him when he was laid up with the flu a month later. It wasn't to the same group, but god knows, there were almost as many groups as there were inmates, it seemed. Students. He got up to leave.

“Sit – you haven't been dismissed.” 

He continued after Connor returned to his seat. “I don't have the budget for any of that, and that medical report isn't unique – a lot of teeth hit walls, and a lot of shampoo bottles get sat on.” He sighed. “No, I've got to come up with something different. You.”

The boy looked confused. It was one time, eighteen months ago, and it hadn't lasted. For all he knew, he'd even made it worse for the kid. 

“I'm writing my doctoral thesis about sexual assault in the penal system. As part of that, I've received permission to do some remodeling here, and start a mentoring program – pair the tadpoles to a... more seasoned student.”

“I'm not interested.”

“Oh, well, jeez then if you're not interested... sit the hell down. I'm not asking if you're interested – I'm telling you you're doing it.”

Connor turned around, gripping the chair, but didn't sit.

The Warden laughed. “We've got predators here, and prey, and you – you're a lone wolf. You bounce between groups, never causing trouble, never attracting attention – except that one time. No, you're a part of the experiment, like it or not.” The computer monitor swiveled around to face the student, a few keys clicked, and a picture of the intake room illuminated the screen. Warden Schmidt walked around the desk to watch with him.

A guard stood at half-attention by the door, a boy in a chair by the desk – there was no sound, but it was obvious he was speaking, probably to the doctor sitting and taking notes at the desk. He had dark hair, maybe black, probably brown. He looked like he might be Connor's height, a bit more or less, with a slight, almost scrawny build. He looked scared, his hands in constant war with each other, picking at his nails, twisting around each other, holding each other for comfort.

“That is our last new inmate until I can assure the safety of my students. Jude Jacob. He, uh, he ran away with his sister, uh, Callie, uh, Quinn, and earned himself two years as an accessory when she stole a car.” On the monitor, the boy, Jude, stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt. He fumbled with the first couple of buttons, but the next three seemed to come easy, though they might have popped off with all his nervous tweaks and twitches.

Connor knew what came next – standing there naked for a complete physical, measurements taken for his uniforms, five shirts, five undershirts, three pants, seven pairs of briefs, seven pairs of socks, two jumpsuits, a pair of cheap sneakers, cheap workboots, a pair of athletic shorts that would barely cover his briefs. Doctor Holmes was Connor's height and the tadpole came up to his eyebrows, and he was almost certain he could see the boy's ribs along his spine. His butt was a little on the... whoa... 'what's that?!'

He'd had three physicals since arriving, intake and each birthday, and he'd never been subjected to the humiliation the boy on the screen was going through – he was leaning forward, chin probably on the paper sheet covering the examine table, another guard leaning across his back, his arms reaching back and holding his own butt-cheeks ('small and round') apart while the guard snapped pictures. The heat of Jude's embarrassment almost radiated through the screen – hell, Connor was embarrassed for him.

“I need complete documentation of his body, scars and marks that he has, and doesn't have, coming in. Next, he'll be... yes, there it is... checked for swelling and other defects of the anal area.” As he spoke, the doctor reached down and rubbed his hand between the boy's spread cheeks – it was professional and quick, though the boy's reaction told Connor no-one had touched him there since he as old enough to take care of his own toileting needs. Jude straightened, bashfully standing and covering himself with his constantly twitching hands. The monitor turned away. “From here, it's just more documentation as they finish the standard intake physical and search.” A cavity search – if he couldn't poop, they'd go digging – a threat that, for Connor anyway, always loosened the bowels.

'Jude,' Connor thought. It was strange – no-one used first names here, and except for his own, he wasn't sure he even knew anyone else's. The boy was 'Jude', though, in his head. Not 'Jacob'. It'd make sense if there was any other 'Jacobs' here – Smiths and Jones' and Williams' all tended to get other nicknames, sometimes ones they even approved of. Just 'Jude'.

“The first six weeks are critical – tadpoles are targets just for being tadpoles. After that, it's on him – the numbers show he'll be left alone as long as he doesn't cross the wrong faction.” Another file appeared on the desk, flopping open to display the boy's mugshot.

“So you want me to protect him for six weeks?”

“No – you'll protect him for four weeks. The proof of the experiment will be the next two.”

“I guess I don't understand.” A thought. “If they know I'm protecting him, they'll be all over him as soon as they figure I'm done. Look at him...” Connor couldn't not. “He's maybe one twenty... five six... arms like twigs. He won't be able to protect himself after four weeks. I can't do it.” A sigh. “Put him in iso for a couple months, trot him out to prove you can protect us.”

“That's not going to work. I have to have the information for my paper. If he's successful, I can trickle more students in – maybe Jacob...” Jude. “...can mentor some, maybe I can screen more like you.” The warden leaned back on the desk. “But it has to start with him.”

“Why him? Why me?”

“He's the last and I think I can trust you. What more reason do I need? 'Cuz I said so'? I'm not your parents – lord knows, if they'd done their job, you wouldn't be here. You'll mentor him, show him the ropes, teach him who and what situations to avoid. He won't be a fighter – don't even try.”

He stared at the blank monitor, shuffling his feet a little – there were... reasons... he avoided people in here. But... fighting for little Hay, 'Ben? Maybe? Benny? Denny?' when he'd ignored all the other tads in danger, knowing Jude's first name.. the feeling in his stomach watching the boy's humiliating exam... noticing his butt before... He'd showered with hundreds of boys since arriving, but he'd carefully avoided paying attention to anyone's naked form before... Jude's spine, the ribs barely visible alongside it, leading down, down, to his... butt. Bare and round... maybe enough muscle to avoid being boney, maybe not. He shook his head. “I can't do this.”

“You'll do it, or you'll find yourself in iso, with the guards accidentally leaving the doors unlocked while they respond to a small riot at the other end of the school. There'll be a reward, of course, maybe a weekend furlough, for whichever student locates your 'missing' uniform, and maybe another for anyone who... helps... you into the med ward.” Connor's eyes widened, not missing the double-meaning of that last part. 

“Understand?” The inm.. student looked defiant but remained quiet. “Jacob is currently getting an earful of how things work around here... or how they're going to work. The potential dangers of being alone, the importance of having a mentor. They don't know anything about the experiment, but he should be well-prepared for you to take control.”

This was all too much. He wasn't even an outgoing person – he couldn't think of a single thing about any of his previous roommates that had stuck in his mind. Endless tales of trouble at home, brags about this or that, some snored, some ground their teeth... come to think, he'd have trouble recognizing any of his former roommates if he saw them again. Even on the soccer and baseball teams before here – those friendships began and ended on the field. If his dad hadn't dragged him to the banquets and ceremonies, he wouldn't have gone to those – even though he invariably earned a trophy for more than participating. And now... this?

“Can... can I have a day? To think? Read the file? I can't just do this!”

A smile crossed the warden's face. Connor, in his distress, missed it, and it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He pulled a radio from under his jacket and keyed it, “Red 3, red 3.”

“Go for Red 3.”

“Please escort your student to Room I-5. He'll take his supper and breakfast there.”

“I-5, 10-4. Red 3 out.”

“You'll have until tomorrow after breakfast. Let me show you to your new room.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Jude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel really crappy that I neglected to thank @allfeelingeye on Twitter for the story title - it's so much more appropriate and poetic than anything I came up with. 
> 
> And thanks to Mimi and Marcus for prereading and helping clarify a direction.

Jude Jacob couldn't grasp any of this. Callie, once again, running away and messing everything up for them both. He should have known to just let her go this time, she'd be 18 in 4 months, but they'd dealt with so much together over the last 10 years, it was immediately unthinkable to get by without her. Given time, every time after some consideration, he'd realize he would be better off without her, if he could just let her go. She was the quintessential drama-queen, always doing something stupid when things looked like they might go their way for once – it had gotten worse when she found her birth father, and he didn't want her. The Adams-Fosters actually had a court date set for their adoption, and she just had to run off to Indiana to see Wyatt first.

And now Jude was locked up for trying to stop her. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She'd at least done that one last thing for him, testifying that he was trying to stop her and wasn't in on the plan to steal a car. They'd kept his case in the juvenile system, though she was headed for hard time in the adult system. Like Jude, the system had finally given up on her.

The court date for the adoption had been pushed back because of all of this, too, not that it mattered – she'd be 18 by then (who adopts 18 year olds?), and why bother adopting a kid in reform school? It wasn't like he'd be moved from home to home any more, nor could his 'parents' do anything about it if he was. With luck, he'd be released on his 18th, and it'd all be academic then, anyway. Lena insisted, even promised, they were going through with it, no matter what, but 10 years in the foster system taught him about promises: easy to give and even easier to break.

“... Red 3 out” The guard, a burly, unfriendly man, indicated a new direction. “Looks like you get a reprieve, pole. It's iso for you tonight. Warden's orders.”

“I... iso?” It was hard to talk, he'd had a lump in his throat since getting out of the van that brought him in. The fact that the man next to him had taken pictures of his butthole and made jokes about it being “a lovely, delicious little cherry” while his partner held him down and the doctor felt him up – all that made it difficult to speak to these people and impossible to look at them.

“Isolation. A private room all to yourself. Your virtue is safe for one more night.”

“Unless Murph's on – cherry-boy all by himself? No way he won't come visiting.” The other guard laughed – it was not a happy sound.

“You didn't hear? Murph got a paid vacation while the new warden 'looks into' that situation with the poles two weeks ago.” The burly one pulled out his keychain, a bright orange jump-drive the only non-key on it, Jude noticed. “He's getting the vacation – I'm getting the pay.” He laughed – if anything, it was even more evil and miserable than his partner's.

“He's paying me to keep this – he gets it back when the warden doesn't find anything. If he does... I'm sure there's a market for it on the darknet.”

Not for the first time, Jude tried to swallow the lump, wondering what the butterflies would make of it as it dropped into his stomach. He couldn't even find his safe-place, that area of his mind where the only thing was Jude, just Jude and all the horrors locked safely outside. It had kept him safe and sane through a dozen foster homes, and if he had one regret about his time with Stef and Lena, it was losing that - he hadn't needed it, so he'd forgotten how to get there when he was stressed. He could visit, given time and calm, and remember his parents, and Jack... oh, Jack.

His first, and probably only, ever, boyfriend. They'd met when they shared a room at an older couple's, but when the wife had a mild stroke – she was only 50! - they'd gotten separated, Jude to the Adams-Fosters with Callie and Jack to a group home. They kept in contact, eventually falling in love, he thought, after Jack kissed him on the freshman camping trip. They'd made out several times – every chance they could get, really – until Jack's latest foster father caught them. Last foster father. After chasing Jude out of the house, he'd started beating on Jack until, as Stef put it when she didn't think Jude could hear, there was nothing left to beat.

They'd paid for his cremation, Jude insisting on giving everything he'd been saving for a car, and held a small service on the beach. When he'd poured out his boyfriend's ashes, the wind had picked up, swirling around Jude, Jack leaving him with one last hug before drifting out to sea and infinity.

He sniffled, his eyes watering. He wasn't going to cry – not for that, not here. He was sure there were more tears to come – a lot more, if the guards were to be believed – but Jack's tears were private, this place wasn't getting those. 

He hoped they were close – the armload of clothing was getting heavy, the bedding piled on top making it awkward. It wouldn't do to drop anything, he was sure the guards would make him leave it. Briefs, though. They were rubbing his crotch – he was going to be raw if they didn't stop soon. He hoped they'd let him have powder or something, or maybe he could buy new boxers from the commissary or however they replaced personal items – he had a few dollars to put on account, and Stef & Lena had promised him a little now and then. Shaving really wasn't on issue – Donald, his father, had told him the men in the family didn't start bearding up until their early 20s, and even then it was never anything worth keeping, and so far, he was a Jacob. 

“Turn left, pole. Your room is on the right.”

Jude came back from wherever his mind had drifted – he still had the lump, and the butterflies, and the watery eyes, so it wasn't his safe place – and took a look at his latest temporary room. A cot. A nightstand. A drawer under the cot. A small window up by the ceiling. Two openings in the door, a window and a pass-through slot. A toilet with a sink back. A cloudy metal “mirror”. A laser clock drawing 3:05pm on the wall.

“Put your clothes away neatly – there will be an inspection before you pack it all up tomorrow. Shirts on the left, pants in the middle, coveralls on the right under the cot. Socks in front and undies in back in the nightstand. Supper will be brought to you at 6, breakfast at 6 tomorrow. When you're done, slip the tray through the slot – unless you want an audience, you'll want to avoid shitting or jerking off at those times.”

He dropped the clothing in a pile on the cot, his hands immediately finding each other and resuming their endless battle. Jude took a seat next to the pile, pulling his legs up to his chest as he leaned back against the wall, hugging them close with his battling hands, and tried to breathe. 

As he relaxed, just a bit, he reflected on the events of the day – waking up in the holding cell, being herded to the courtrooms with seven other boys, one or two his age, but most older, marched in front of the judge to have his conviction read out and sentence pronounced. He and two others, both older, from his group had been sent to one courtroom, the others to one down the hall, to adult court, he assumed. He half-hoped to get a glimpse of Callie, but no such luck,

Then there was more waiting in another cage while the rest of the group had their sentences passed – the whole process from waking up until the bus departed with the three prisoners and two guards was only 3 hours. After another 3 hours, they pulled outside a large white building surrounded by a tall chain fence, rushed off the bus, and made to stand at some semblance of attention until the warden arrived to give them the “welcome” speech/threats. After that, it'd gotten strange. 

As the three boys were marched down the sidewalk and into the building – it reminded Jude of Arkham Asylum in one of the Batman video games – the other two were ushered through another door, this one locked, leaving him in the foyer with Warden Schmidt. He tried to pay attention, but he hadn't had much sleep and was feeling overwhelmed by the events of the day so far.

The part that caught his interest most, just before being let through the locked entrance, was that Jude's roommate had been carefully selected to help him with the adjustment to this new environment – it was too much to hope that the guy would be his friend, but maybe he'd be friendly. Or, at least, not evil. 

It sure seemed “not evil” was a pretty high bar to reach, forget “friendly”. His lawyer, while he was explaining the pros and cons of taking a plea deal versus going through a trial, had given him some advice on getting by in here . One was to avoid telling anyone that he was gay, the other was to “go along to get along” – find himself a bigger, older student and be... friendly. Boyfriendly, even. Think of it as “just sex”, masturbation with someone else's body, if necessary. Watch some porn before going in, if he had to. That Jude was a virgin and not going to have another boyfriend didn't matter – everyone from his lawyer to the guards at the jail seemed sure his virginity wouldn't last more than a week in here and one way or the other, he'd be someone's bit... boyfriend. Jesus couldn't quit making jokes about it, Brandon barely acknowledged his existence even when things were good, Stef & Lena couldn't stop with the pitying looks, and which of her own boyfriends was Mariana talking about today? Given her penchant for running away, nobody was surprised that Callie didn't get bail, and his lawyer strongly recommended that he avoid her until at least one of their cases was adjudicated.

His missed all of them. 

Just breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I said this would go up Sunday, but a social issue came up and I didn't want to leave this as an excuse to cancel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for the delay. This... work... is a little experimental for me... I haven't written in years, so I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing. Alternating Jude & Connor chapters wasn't working for this part, at least not for such short bits... so, this. 
> 
> Remember what the man said: I'm not a fast writer. I'm not a slow writer. If anything, I'm a half-fast writer... 
> 
> :-)

The room was a definite improvement over the old one. It had a single bunk-bed for one thing, making it seem a lot bigger than the rooms with individual cots, though it probably wasn't – some of the other rooms had bunk-beds, but that just added another person, not more room. Actual dressers instead of military surplus wall-lockers that didn't lock and sometimes didn't even close. Where the old rooms had 2 small nightstands that doubled as writing desks, this one had a single table – even though he was gaining the drawer-space in the nightstand, he didn't see the table as an improvement. 

And drywall! The other rooms were all light gray painted cinder-blocks – it was a bit too industrial for his taste. This was a two-tone – off-white from the ceiling and down one wall, tan from the floor and up the other wall, the two colors separated by a strip of brown. The ceiling was white acoustical tile, the floor, highly waxed wood, probably fake, but still, it was an improvement over the plain white tiles. 

He'd seen that style of window before, a set of blinds between two panes of glass. The old room had metal shutters that opened and closed automatically, so he liked that he had some control over the outside light. None of the dorm-rooms were on the first floor or easily peeped into, but some of the other students were known to hang blankets on occasion, just... because. Not all the sexual activity here was solo or non-consensual.

His clothes – he didn't have much of anything else – lay in a pile on one end of the mattress, fresh bedding stacked on the other.

The final difference was a door in the walls opposite the entrance – the old room only had the one door. The new door had a pull-handle, not a knob or twist handle. 

“Ok, then. I'll leave the folder here and you can look through it as homework. Your instructors have been notified that you'll be absent from class for the next week. Jacob will be sent up mid-morning. Be ready!” He gave a silly two fists up salute that Connor duplicated, trying to hide the sarcasm behind his.

As the Schmidt left, Connor eyed the file laying on the desk and curiously stepped over to pick it up.

He scanned it quickly, hoping to learn more about the boy, but it turned out to be little more than a list of things he was supposed to say as a “mentor”. Most of it was standard blow-smoke-up-his-butt... now, there was an interesting thought... focus, Connor, focus... ego pumping and stroking... damn it... ah, the second page was titled “About Sexual Assault”. 

He'd heard most of it before, always aimed at women, though. Bits about yelling and fighting back, grabbing crotches, stomping feet, poking eyes – in here, yelling was more likely to attract others who wanted a piece of... whatever and fighting back was a good way to get hurt even worse – vengeance was a real thing here. It ended with the dubious advice to, in here, “go along to get along” – cooperating might, in the victim's best judgment, as a last, inescapable resort, result in less physical harm. 

Connor shook his head as he took it all in. This whole thing was getting stranger by the minute and he hadn't even met the boy yet. Jude... what was it about that name that sang through his thoughts? He didn't have any illusions that the warden's mentoring experiment would work for long – the boys who raped weren't concerned with power or sexuality or love or any of that bullshit that might apply outside. 

Not in here – it was about getting off. Busting a nut in something other than one's own hand – sexuality might keep them off the straight guys big enough to fight back, but Connor knew the flaming queens and the closet queens and the straight, and bi, and the fat and the skinny were all equally abused if they didn't watch their step. Some boys would never be able to protect themselves, and no one could take on a determined wolf-pack – even Santiago would fall to a large enough group. 

If the flamboyant boys didn't get raped as often as the others, it was only because of the truism: you can't rape the willing. For a little favor, an extra desert, protection from a particular individual, whatever, most of them were Helium Heels and hollerin' for Heyzoose, amen.

The only power involved was having more of it than their victim. Unless it was a punishment for some slight, real or imagined, they were raped because they were available. The tadpoles were easy marks – they didn't know what places to avoid, or when to avoid them, or when to stay close to or away from a group at any cost. After a few weeks, they learned the signs of a gang on the prowl – when they healed up, they'd learned to relax and take it if they couldn't avoid it. 

The experiment was pointless – it was going to come down to the “last resort”, cooperation, and cooperating with one's rapist didn't make it not!rape. In fact, Connor started with realization, he'd be in more danger for delaying their prize – he didn't really believe they'd be denied long. The boy... Jude... would be an anchor around his neck as he tried to navigate the herd. 

Connor had heard the rumours about the guards, too, but they'd never bothered him so he couldn't be sure. Yeah, they'd make comments as bad as any of the other students, but that was mostly to get a reaction. Everything he'd heard from anyone was always in a different wing, always some other kid they'd heard about, two or more degrees removed from the teller – he was pretty sure something had happened at some point, probably years before, and the story just kept getting passed along as if it just happened. None of them would break a sweat to protect the students from each other, but were they a real danger?  
***********

The tears came after his supper tray was picked up. It was delivered in silence – spaghetti in some sort of red stuff that, on the chart of tomato-y things, fell somewhere between pasta sauce and ketchup. Cheap ketchup. When the empty was picked up, though, the slot opened, though there was no need, and a pair of disembodied lips moaned and cheered for the “fresh fish”. When those disappeared, Jude got up long enough to reassure himself that the room door was still locked before crawling back under the covers.

He missed... everything. It had only been a few days – Stef and Lena had him out on bail waiting for the trial – but it felt like forever with another forever to go before he'd see anything familiar again.

Anything that wouldn't include Jack. He could only imagine what “nothing left to beat” looked like, and imagine it he did. Even when he could distract himself long enough to think rationally, to tell himself that he was picturing it worse than it probably was, and that he really shouldn't be trying to picture it, anyway, as soon as the distraction ended... BAM. The make-up artists for “The Walking Dead” could take lessons from the images in his mind.

He'd left his wallet when he ran out. Since it was a crime scene and there wasn't anything in the wallet that “couldn't be replaced”, he wasn't allowed to get it back – “after the trial”, Stef said, which then became “after the appeal”. And then the next appeal, he assumed – he'd read about a soldier once who was convicted of killing his family, and the appeals ran endlessly – the house it happened in sat, sealed and inaccessible, for 20 years before the conviction was finally and irrevocably turned over. If noone fought to release the crime scene, it wouldn't be released – the bastard wasn't married and he'd inherited the house – maybe when taxes came due, the state would auction it, but until then...

His school ID, his driver's permit, an emergency debit card – they were all replaced. Pictures of his parents, of the Adams-Fosters, of Callie – those were safely nestled in his new wallet. An expensive leather one, a gift from Callie, that sat in storage with the rest of the clothes he'd worn to intake.

Pictures of Jack. Before they'd met. Jack and him. At the beach. At the gay prom. His old wallet was a photo album of their relationship, and it sat on the floor of Jack's room, maybe in a dried puddle of Jack's blood, in limbo until the bastard was locked up for now and for good. Lena was strict about putting anything online, so there wasn't even a webpage or social media account he could print them off of. And his iPhone? He'd left it in the car when he was caught with Callie, and when he got it back, someone had tried to open it – trying until it reset and wiped everything, probably to get back at them for wrecking the car. The only copies of the pictures... the only proof that Jack had existed and they'd been happy... rotting with the remains of Jack.

It was his fault. And Stef's. He didn't understand it at all, but the appeals were because he'd called Stef, who picked him up, on duty and in uniform, at the convenience store on the corner, then went back, still in uniform and technically on duty, to check on Jack. Something about her being out of her jurisdiction and not calling for assistance – she wasn't one to cry, not even when her father died, but tears were running down her face as she apologized and promised Jude that she would have if she'd thought Jack was in danger. One bright spot was that the bastard couldn't afford bail, and he'd said something about heading for Mexico, so he was sitting in a cell while all the trials were going on. The brightest spot, Stef told him and he mostly agreed, was that he was found guilty – even if, by some long shot, he got off on some technicality, everyone knew what he'd done. 

He should have stayed. Or made sure Jack ran with him. He'd probably be put in juvie or maybe another group home, but he'd be... safer. Alive, surely. That was everything. Living. Even in his darkest moments, when he knew the only thing to live for was the next breath, Jude couldn't imagine NOT living.  
***********

Connor set the file back down and walked over to the other door, the restroom.

Schmidt had glossed over it in the room tour, other than mentioning it was shared by three other unoccupied rooms. The first thing he noticed was that there was no lock on it. It wasn't a big deal – he had a locked drawer that he didn't have anything to put in. Jude just arrived, so he obviously wouldn't have anything to steal, but again, locked drawer. Apparently, these rooms were for 'trusted students', the ones who wouldn't be sneaking in to piss on your clothes just because they could.

Just what was he supposed to teach the boy? Dropping trou and grabbing his ankles every time someone stared for more than 3 seconds? Dropping to his knees when someone licked their lips within 3 feet of him? He shook his head again – this whole situation... It made a demented sort of sense – if he learned to cover his teeth, how to relax, not to fight... He didn't have any illusions that Jude wouldn't get tag-teamed at least once, but maybe this was a good opportunity to teach him...

'Get a grip, Stevens. You don't even know how to do any of that stuff.' Jude's parents probably hadn't let him watch “Oz” – Connor had downloaded it and watched on his laptop when he was supposed to be doing homework – so explaining the true dangers here, the stuff beyond 'don't drop the soap' middle-school jokes, he'd probably end up traumatizing Jude as bad as learning it on the fly. 

Besides the four doors, there were four toilets, one in each corner – the standard stainless sink/toilet combo as all the other rooms. Above each was the same polished stainless mirror, good enough to shave in, barely, but not much else. The tile floor had a barely noticeable slope towards the center, where a single pole stood surrounded by a drain.

Curious, he tested one of the other doors – they all had the same plain pull-handle with no indication of locks. It opened to another room, allowing for being on the... he was disoriented, so he called it the east side while his was on what he was calling the north... allowing for the different direction, the adjoining room was devoid of any furnishings, but otherwise almost identical to his own. His was brightly lit, but only one fixture was working in here – considering how money was wasted in other areas, it seemed a little pointless.

He walked in, glancing around as he did so like someone might notice – his eyes rolled as he realized how silly that was, but he was distracted by one of the differences between this room and his: shadowy spots in several locations on the walls, in the corners, on the ceiling. They were holes, through the unpainted drywall in some places, two were cubbys – he rushed back to his own room and compared the same areas. Knowing where to look, he couldn't not see them – one where the real glass mirror was, another behind tiny holes, concealing some sort of shiny object... cameras There was one hanging off the ceiling in the corner, aimed at the bed, but apparently the warden really wanted documentation of the activities in here.

Connor perked up as he heard noise outside his door, but as it lessened, he realized it was just a guard or someone walking by – he was a little nervous he might get in trouble for finding the camera, so he left it alone and returned to the other room. Wires hung out of the holes – now he knew those would connect he cameras to... that cubby, there. He picked through the loose wires passing through the cubby's rear wall and noted there were all camera cables – no network. He vaguely remembered the warden saying something about having to come in periodically and collect videos – networks were hackable and he didn't want anyone reporting on his experiment before his paper was finished. His mental map showed him that this cubby would sit behind the dresser, the other by the floor behind the bed. The wires for that one looked like they might belong to headph... microphones. It seemed odd that sound would be recorded separate from the video, but there were 6 camera cables and only 4 microphones – it must have made some sort of twisted sense. He looked around, but couldn't see anywhere microphones might be placed – those were probably small enough, they could be anywhere.

He glanced around some more, mentally mapping where all the cameras were likely to be in his own room – he came up with three, not counting the obvious one, exited, and looked closer around the restroom. There were several places that might conceal cameras or microphones – deciding against pressing his luck, he didn't look too close. He did confirm that his was the only finished and furnished room – the one across from his still had drywall missing, and the last looked almost liveable. It lacked funishings, but was otherwise complete – if he'd explored this one first, he might not have found the cameras at all.

He'd never liked group showers, so he'd saved this one for last. Until now, all the ones he'd encountered had been several single pods of 3 or 4 heads spaced along the wall – as close to private as one could get was facing the wall while washing off. His public school shower could handle 18 boys without sharing – enough to get the sports teams in and out, who were the only ones that ever used them – Eldonna's, 32, everyone in each floor of the wing. Privacy wasn't an option here. The shower-head was a single tube around the pole, about 6 foot high, three rows of holes offset the bottom shooting away from the pole – face the pole or away from the pole, there wasn't any way of hiding anything. 6 boys could probably use it comfortably at the same time – 8, maybe 10 if they didn't mind bumping into each other. It was fed by a single pipe, so there'd have to be some cooperation on temperature if more than one was showering at a time, which, given the scheduling around here – Connor didn't think he'd get a break from that for long – was guaranteed.

Eldonna's was military-esque. There was no rank among the students, the guards were all officers, and the Warden, the civilian leader. Up at 5 for 40 minutes of calisthenics and running two miles, showered, room ready, and dressed for breakfast by 6, first class by 6:45, lunch at noon until 12:30, more classes until 4, group from 4 until supper at 6. “Free time” from 6:30 until lights out at 9 – Connor had soccer practice from 6:30 to 7:30, then usually finished his homework for the rest of the evening. 

Weekends area little less structured. Calisthenics, the run, and mealtimes were all the same, lights out was usually extended until 10, laundry times were assigned by dorm area, and unless a student was religious or required to attend more intensive therapy, the day was his own. A sign on the wall of the restroom said the laundry time for this floor was 7-8:30 on Saturday.

The visitation annex was open all day, both days. Not that Connor ever needed it – the one time Adam had tried to visit, he'd been turned away for being drunk. Connor was so embarrassed when he heard, he'd asked him not to come back. He'd get a short letter now and again, birthday and holiday cards with short notes included, but other than that, his dad gave him the respect to stay away. His mom never visited – never even made the suggestion in the straight-from-the-store-with-only-a-signature cards she'd sporadically send.

Adam hadn't always drank. At least, Connor didn't think so – it'd started, to the best of his recollection, when he was 10. When his mom left them.

It was chicken-or-egg in his memory – did Adam drink because his wife left, or did his wife leave because of the drinking? They'd fought a lot for a year or two before. It was a given that she'd left them both – she'd always said kids gave her migraines, and it wasn't until she was gone that he realized she considered him one of those kids. As far as Adam was concerned, Connor stopped aging – he'd gotten spanked when he was 10, and he was still getting spanked when he was 13, and if he'd screwed up, he was sure he'd be spanked at 14 and 15. He couldn't be sure, but he kinda thought he'd grown up a little in his dad's eyes when he'd gotten arrested, and a real live girl-with-boobs was somehow involved in it – maybe the spankings would have ended, but he could be a mean drunk... maybe beatings would have started? Memories of the old days, happy dad, quiet mom, mixed with drunken miserable yelling at the world dad, and no mom – he didn't know where one stopped and the other began anymore.

He shook his head – it seemed to be the best way to get out of it.

Somewhere in all that scheduling, Connor had to fit “mentor Jude”. Correction: “figure out how to mentor Jude” and “mentor Jude”.  
***********

He was sweaty and shaking as he woke with a jump. 

It was the dream. It was the same dream, every night since Jack's death. It'd been the same after his parents accident, the dreams – always knowing things might end differently, if only he coulda-shoulda-woulda done something different. But he never did – the dream wouldn't let him.

They were listening to music – Jack loved hard rock and metal, and that day the iPod was on shuffle with everything from 80s hair-bands to current ones that rarely got any airplay but seemed to be all over social media – in the dream, he didn't hear music, but Jude knew it was there. The only sound he remembered from in the dream was breathing, Jack's and his. 

They were sitting on the edge of the bed holding hands when they turn their heads and kiss. They remove each other's shirts, their tongues and lips in constant motion – if he was conscious of it, he'd see and feel the resemblance to his nervous hands.

Their hands, steady in the dream, the twitching and twisting began later, started wandering, exploring, feeling, opening. Maybe that's why he didn't run when the bastard burst through the door – his belt was loose, the snap on his pants undone, Jude just releasing the tab on his lowered zipper. Jude's belt was loose, but that was it – he grabbed his shirt and phone, pushed his way past, into the darkness beyond, stumbling and falling... falling... falling...

And he was awake.

It always took several minutes to get himself under something like control – hugging himself in a ball, shaking as he concentrated on breathing. When it steadied, then his body would relax – if it didn't, and sometimes it didn't, he'd pass out and wake in the morning with a headache and cramped from head to toe. Sometimes, the tears would come, sometimes not – this was a teary night, regret and fear and loss and loneliness fighting for dominance in his misery. If they were in the same home, Callie would crawl into bed and wrap herself around him until he fell asleep, after their mom's death – those dreams stopped after a year. Mostly. She always seemed to know, or maybe she just watched him every night – he didn't know. He did know she wasn't around at all after Jack, before if he thought about it. It was between Wyatt and Brandon and some guy named AJ who was consuming all her time those days, unless she felt the need to boss him around. 

He was small enough, when his pillow was soaked through with tears and sweat and snot, he could ball a portion of the blanket under his head as a replacement. The blanket was for comfort, not heat – there was no air movement in this room, and the temperature was perfect for him. They hadn't told him anything about laundry or changing his bedding, so he could only hope he wouldn't be stuck with the filthy pillow for very long – just his luck, his regular room would be too cold to pull the blanket-ball trick.

He sniffled one last time and fell back to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Several of the alphas stared at the warden and him as they walked up to the track. Being called out of the class by the warden wasn't that unusual, for others, though it was usually a couple days before they were seen again and it was never Connor. Normally, he was one of the first to arrive for calisthenics, but he wasn't sure if his break from the schedule included the exercise regime or not – apparently, not, as the warden showed up bright and way too early to escort him. 

He'd stayed up past lights-out trying to think of what he'd say to the boy. He'd settled on just talking to Jude, trying to explain the situation... it was going to depend on what horror stories he'd been filled with. Connor wasn't sure even the stories could do justice to the horrors of this place – corrupt or not, some things were kept from the guards. To be honest, he was sure some things were kept from him, and he definitely liked it that way.

He didn't have any friends here. Too many of the others were just biding their time – this was just a way-station, a hitch on the highway to bigger and better crime. Some were the proverbial big fish in a tiny pond, enjoying whatever status that brought among a few sycophants that needed someone to lead them – Connor assumed most of those were nobodies outside. A few were like him – a one-time mistake, a reset on a life that was headed nowhere, and everything, EVERYTHING about this place and that life would be left behind when that gate closed behind him for the last time. And the hangers-on, the quiet, shy, needy ones that brought nothing but trouble – in constant need of protection and attention.

One time, he'd tried taking in one of the needy ones. He'd been here a few months and was feeling lonely and he happened across the situation in the laundry-room. Fisher, one of the more obnoxious alphas, and his little band of bitches had the tad cornered when Connor walked in.

“Hey... how's it goin'?” he'd asked with forced casualness. “Is that machine taken?” indicating the one nearest the kid.

“Get out of here, Stevens. This doesn't concern you.”

“It kinda does – I'm out of underwear.” He pushed through the bitches and opened the washer – he took notice of the tad, dark, wavy hair, brown eyes, rounded, almost pudgy face, obviously pretty small to be crammed in the space between the washer and the wall. The gang behind him was mumbling something and shuffling restlessly, but he ignored them as he smiled and offered the kid his hand – the boy was whimpering for his mommy, for god's sake. Connor's stomach turned.

The tadpole wormed his way to freedom, not as small and somewhat more limber than Connor had imagined. It was almost annoying the way he clung to the bigger boy's backside while they confronted his tormentors. “This one's empty – would you mind holding it while I go get my bag?”

“Sure thing – you go get your bag while we get to know the pole. Thanks for getting him out, by the way – he might have gotten trapped.”

“Nah – he looks pretty raw, probably lost. I'll just show him back to his room, it's on my way, I'm sure. If you'll excuse us?” He grabbed the tadpole's hand and drug him around – the kid's hand was digging into his kidney and walking was going to be a chore if he didn't loosen up some.

“He stays.” And then Fisher's mistake – he grabbed Connor's arm. The reaction was a blur in his memory – the weight of the tadpole hanging on his side, the hand on his shoulder, his hand on an elbow, a wet crack as the elbow bent the wrong direction, the hand hitting his arm as it flopped off his shoulder. And that tadpole still hanging. 

Fisher sat on the floor cradling his arm as his bitches milled around in confusion. Connor hollered for the guard's attention, then waited to give his story as the tadpole clung to him, arms locked around his waist, staring up with a look uncomfortably reminiscent of Daria. Connor smiled down, then sighed and waited while three guards and his bitches escorted Fisher to the medical ward. The fourth guard grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down to the desk – it took the two of them a couple minutes to coax the tadpole off his ass so they could both sit and tell their version of events. 

Connor knew it was going to be a black mark on his record, at a time when he thought those meant something, a write-up, extra duties on weekends – cleaning the laundry-room would be ironic – maybe a night or two in iso,

He'd avoided attention the first time, when it was just him. Three of his assailants hit the wall hard enough to make them all reconsider – one day, he'd understand why being in a group made people extra stupid, but they'd tried taking him one or two at a time instead of all at once. There was some vague threats about “next time” as they slunk off in search of easier prey.

“Next time” hadn't come, yet. They stared a lot. Scowled. Grumbled. Stepped back when he walked by. It wasn't like he was trying to be intimidating – he didn't think he was intimidating, and he certainly wasn't the biggest fish in the pond, in any sense of the word. It wasn't that he'd taken out the biggest or meanest man – Santiago could wipe the floor, the walls, and the ceiling with him and Fisher at the same time and not break a sweat. He guessed, and it was only a guess, that he'd earned a certain respect, though not enough they'd actually show it.

Connor took a place at the rear of the pack, same as always. They might move away when he could see them, but that didn't mean he trusted them behind him. The exercises were the same every day, the same stretching, strength, & cardio routines – he could think about anything else, and not miss a beat. Maybe talking to Jude wasn't the right start – hey, bud, you're small and weak, likely to get raped, so bend on over my bed here... 

Tie him down while he was sleeping?

Wrestle? Spin the bottle? Truth or Dare? Strip poker?

Oh, boy. Those weren't thoughts he needed to entertain – he sorta recalled a line from a book he'd read a few years ago: Man ain't got no need to be raping, long as he's got a good hand. But in this place? Was he any different than the rest, if his could so easily start thinking about forcing the boy... odd that it was the first time he thought of him generically... into anything, no matter how justified he might think... and why the hell was he thinking it would ever be justified? Shit, Stevens, get it together, man.

He normally hated being at the rear of the pack during the running part – too many of the others walked faster than they “ran”, so the first lap or two required some thought until entropy took over and everything fell apart. The stragglers dropped back quickly, those that liked running edged to the front, and those that were just there spread out into a less organized cluster, tending to group around their respective alphas. Today, the distraction was welcome. Maybe by the time he worked to the front, he could focus on something safer.

Fisher and his peons drifted towards the outside of the track, Santiago and his to the inside, the unaffiliated and alpha wannabes scattered forward and back and in between, keeping haphazard pace – the bigger boys, the ones most in need of exercise and generally the ones putting the least effort into it, easily drifted to the back, giving Connor something to watch for and dodge. He considered making a game of it, seeing how close he could pass without touching each one, but some of them technically belonged to Fisher and Santiago, and others were just looking for a reason to prove themselves with a scrap. Given that some of them couldn't even keep in step with themselves, he decided against risking any inadvertent contact.

He wasn't a people person, damn it. He liked sports, soccer, baseball, football... team sports, but everyone knew their roles and positions and what needed to be said and done. Even when he called plays, it was a matter of telling his teammates what to do – it didn't take any explanation or discussion. He hadn't even had a regular birds and bees sex talk, for crap's sake! How was he supposed to give one, especially about gay sex, doubly especially when cooperation maybe be optional but not required, triply when all he himself knew was generalities from jokes and threats and recent consideration? Shit shit shit. He was fairly certain it wasn't a subject covered in the library, and he already knew from fumble-fingering and searching for “tyrannosaurus sex”, the limited internet access provided wasn't going to be sufficient – “sex” was one of several words that required special dispensation and a metric shit-ton of paperwork to access...

Although... maybe that wouldn't be so hard to obtain? The warden really seemed to want this to work, so maybe if he explained that he needed some information...? Of course, then he'd have to explain himself to the librarian – wouldn't that be fun? The woman probably hadn't been near a penis since the one she was shot out of nine months before being born – any discussions that didn't involve this Sunday's service, last Sunday's service, and the requirements for the poor, hopeless sinners incarcerated here making it into Heaven earned a scowl reminiscent of finding the last three users hadn't flushed... or wiped.

Sweat dripped off him as he made his way back to his new room, a shower, and making use of what would probably be his last bit of Connor-time for months, if not years, to come. It might even help clear his mind in regards to Jude.

*****************

Breakfast was scrambled eggs, O'Brien, he thought, with green and red bell peppers. Hash browns and bacon, and a plastic cup of OJ. It looked a little more edible than the spaghetti – that tomato-almost-ketchup-sauce from that might have went well with this. Jude really wasn't hungry, but since he was going to be on this schedule now, he figured he better choke it down.

It was delivered silently – the closing of the pass-through woke him up – but it certainly wasn't picked up silently. A different mouth, with a bit of a scraggly pubescent mustache and teeth badly in need of a brushing, but the same taunts of “fresh meat” and even ruder things yelled through. The little bit of sleep he'd managed made it easier to take this time, but he couldn't help but tense up a little – anyone else would notice that his hands, quiet before now, started twisting around each other, trying to tie his fingers into knots. The butterflies in his stomach had even settled a bit, but he suspected they were still asleep – he'd probably avoid the lump in his throat, as long as he was alone.

He wondered if he should start stacking his items on the bed, ready to haul – the guard had said there'd be an inspection before he was moved, but that didn't make much sense. It wasn't a big deal – he had plenty of experience stuffing his clothes in a garbage bag for a last minute move. He hoped they'd bring one – it would be a lot easier than trying to manhandle a bundle that included the dirty clothes he'd worn yesterday.

Mostly, he was bored. He'd never been much good at entertaining himself without a good book or a video game or something – he had a tendency to get inside his own head, which was OK when life was OK, which meant Jack, but terrifying any other time. Even after the nightmares stopped, the daydreams... the daymares... would strike, if given the chance.

It was in the first couple months of first grade – one of his classmates, Tyler, had a birthday party, and his mom had allowed him to have two boys spend the night after. Jude had been in kindergarten with Tyler and Dylan was his cousin. In school, they were inseparable, but since Tyler lived so far away – the other side of the school district, but Jude didn't know that – they rarely got to play together outside of recess. He'd also never spent the night away from home before, so he was excited and scared for the opportunity – until after bedtime.

After the party wound down, the three of them settled in to watch movies and eat popcorn until camping out in the living room for the night. He remembered the first half of “Curious George”, but then he awoke in a dark and scary room without his teddy and wrapped in a blanket that was too scratchy. Something spooky was casting a shadow on the wall above him, moving just enough to seem alive in his 6 year old eyes. He didn't cry out or move – he was too brave for that, and the sound and movement might have attracted something scary – until he realized where he was.

Didn't matter. It was all too strange in the dark and he was sure whatever was casting the shadow on the wall was getting closer – he kept an eye on it, ready to run if it made any sudden moves and struggled to remember his mom's number as he wiggled over to the phone by the sofa. Quietly, he explained the danger he was in, and no, he couldn't stay because SOMETHING was going to get him, and could they please just come pick him up, pretty please?

He was still curled in a ball on the sofa as the sun came up and the house started coming to life. He might have napped here and there, but he was certain he hadn't. Jude couldn't help but wonder if he had just dreamed calling his mom, because she said she'd come get him, and she hadn't – she was always reliable, doing what she said she'd do, and sometimes explaining why she couldn't do something she wanted to do. But, she said she'd come, and she didn't, so maybe he'd just imagined it.

It was almost time for lunch when Tyler's mom had him call to find out when they were coming to get him, or if they should drop him off. Jude didn't recognize the voice who answered her phone – they asked to talk to an adult, and he hung up, thinking surely he'd gotten the number wrong. He was about to try again when the phone rang, but since it wasn't his house, he moved away so Mrs. Tyler could answer it.

She'd looked upset when she hung up, putting on that false smile adults get when they've promised you ice cream and then find that there wasn't any left. She started asking him about his family – did he have any cousins, did he know where his grandparents lived – there were no cousins, or aunts or uncles, that he knew of, and his only grandma had gone to live in Heaven when he was four. “I'm going to try to call mommy again – I think I pressed the wrong button, before.”

“No, honey, that's OK – I'll take care of it. Why don't you boys go play in the yard until lunch, hmm?”

When she called them in a bit later to eat, she had a visitor – she looked like a mean version of the school principal, and Jude disliked her immediately. The new lady tried to make conversation as they ate, asking him all sorts of questions he couldn't answer, and then lunch was over... and the daymares always got blurry from there. 

He could remember the cold facts in the vaguest sense, but he never pictured any of it clearly, who told him what, where they went when, who was this person and that person, and these nice people would be taking care of him and his sister for “a while”. Until he got older and learned how to use the internet, and then he filled in the blanks – something about seeing it written out in words, or maybe the time that had passed, something kept him detached from... after. 

From the searches, he'd pieced together that they were coming to get him that night, mommy, daddy, and they'd woken Callie, but daddy was drunk and there'd been an accident. He was comfortable assuming mommy was as drunk, or more – in his mind, daddy was less drunk, but mommy had said she'd come get him, so daddy drove, Callie asleep in her seat behind him. In the nightmares, he'd be in the seat behind mommy and the nightmare ended with the accident, but Callie always told him that was silly – they wouldn't have been out if he was with them. He'd stopped having the nightmares before he realized that, in them, they might have been coming home from Tyler's, when he would have been in the seat behind mommy.

And the bitch of it was, their light was green – the OTHER guy, also drunk with multiple priors, had ran the red and t-boned them – there was a video. Daddy and the other guy had both gone to prison – the only consolation was daddy would be getting out, maybe in a year or so, but the other guy never would.

He wondered if he could get the transcripts of the trials while he was here – he knew adult prisons had legal libraries, but he wasn't sure if this... school... would, or if he could get transcripts for trials that weren't his. He'd have to check.


End file.
